Colours
by whisperasweknowit
Summary: You cannot manufacture love.


The man stood before a blank canvas. Crumpled paper after crumpled paper lay strewn on the ground around him. The heavy curtains covered the window, blocking out the light. A single lamp was lit beside the easel, casting dark shadows around the man. His ashy blonde hair was puffed up as a result of running fingers through it multiple times. Streaks of paint littered the golden strands. His blue eyes looked wild and strained, as though he were looking for something only he could see.

His wife's birthday was coming up. He felt that he had cause to make a big deal out of it. It was between this birthday and the last that she had agreed to marry him after years of refusal. It was between this birthday and the last that she had agreed to bear his children. It was between this birthday and the last that they had truly, truly known each other. The man felt that this was worth celebrating.

In all honesty, it wasn't the party that had him worried. It wasn't the food or the people. It was the gift.

For this birthday, the man was not satisfied with flowers or chocolates. He wanted to give her something she'd never forget. Something she could never replace. Something that truly meant something to her rather than a frivolous little present that would be forgotten before the month was out.

His plan was to paint. He had painted many things. He'd painted things that were tragic, things that were horrible, things that were bittersweet, fantastic, joyous, amazing. But never had he been faced with such difficulty as this. He was trying to paint his love.

_What color is love?_ he thought to himself.

_Surely love is red. Red is the color of passion, of desire. It is emotionally intense. It awakens your senses and drags you towards the destination of your heart._

But there was more to love than lust. Love couldn't be red because love was much, _much_ more than physical want. The man put down the brush he had dipped in red. Red was not the color his wife wanted to see.

_Maybe love is yellow_, the man pondered, reaching for a clean brush. _Yellow represents joy. It has a warming effect. It arouses cheerfulness. It, like love, lifts you from darker times and floats you towards your desires._

The brush was a centimeter from the yellow paint when the man changed his mind. Bright, light yellow was cheerful and uplifting, but once you added a shade to it the meaning changed. It became to color of sickness and jealousy. The man did not want to use that color for his wife. He had long passed any jealousy their relationship had contained. He desired a fresh aspect to their life.

Observing his messy tray of colors, the man came to a decision he felt was final. _Love is blue. Blue is calming. It reassures you, just as a strong love does. Blue is the color of loyalty and faith, which is the true meaning of love._

Dipping his brush into the blue paint, the man made one stroke across the page before he changed his mind. He tore the paper from the easel, crumpled it, and tossed it aside. Love was not blue. Blue was tranquil and calming, yes, but love was hardly confined into those limits. Love meant a strong faith, but it meant more than trust to the man.

"Perhaps orange is the true color of love," the man mused aloud. "Orange combines the passion of red and the lightness of yellow. It is the color of enthusiasm and happiness and attraction. But…" The man stopped abruptly, staring at the orange hairs of his brush. "Orange is painful to watch for too long. My love for my wife never grows old."

He rinsed his brush, growing more exasperated by the second. He looked over his tray of colors again. He was struck by the sudden urge to swat it away, spilling the colors that caused him this anguish.

"Purple," he said decidedly. _Purple combines the passion of red and the tranquility of blue. It represents both the lustful and the trusting sides of loves. But purple is also associated with royalty and independence. She would hate that. It would remind her of…_

The man stopped his train of thought, too weak to think about it. "No purple."

_I can't use green. It is the symbol of growth and fertility. It took so long to get her to agree to have a family. She'll take it the wrong way. Besides, it corresponds to wealth, which brings up hard images just as purple does._

"What color is love?" he repeated, perplexed. He ran his fingers through his hair again.

It hit him as he lifted his hand from his head, as if pulling the knowledge out. Love could not be put into a color. Love could not be copied. Love was not an object; it was an image. Love was something one imagined. Love was when two people imagined the same thing. Love could not be manufactured. It couldn't be bought. It couldn't be forced. One could not look at something and fall madly in love. Love was a process. Love was a game.

The man put his brush down just as the door cracked open.

"Peeta—"

She was cut off as Peeta embraced her in a hug and kissed her gently. The stood there for a moment before she broke away from him. "What—" she started, but again, she was cut off.

"I love you, Katniss Everdeen," Peeta said softly. "I thought you ought to know."

**AN: For **_**District 14**_**'s June 2011 prompt: Love. The title is spelled the British-English way because I felt it fit better for a title.**


End file.
